A Feast For A Lord
by Arhtea
Summary: It is customary for the wizards to greet their lord with a feast where all the other families formally accept their new leader. Now it is time for a feast for the new lord. WARNING: Graphic violence


**A Feast for the Lord**

 _Tracey is seven. She sits on her grandmother's lap and listens with wide eyes how she speaks of a time years ago. A time when the Wizarding World was ruled by lords or ladies. One lord led all other families. Grandmother's voice shakes a bit when she talks about it. She smiles as if she is still twirling in the ballrooms and enjoying the parties. She is sure that Tracey will see a new lord rise and when she speaks, Tracey finds herself wishing the same thing too. She is so happy when grandmother shows her how to do her hair and what robes to wear for a welcome feast. She twirls around the room when grandmother places a single rose in her blonde hair and they both giggle like crazy as she dances around the room._

* * *

If Tracey were in the mood to be kind, she'd think that professor McGonagall had done it so because Slytherins were least likely to be killed by Lord Voldemort. She is not. She is filled with anger and hatred and she thinks that the old hag did it because ultimately they are all just slimy little snakes and no one will care if they live or die. Tracey is too tired to give people the benefit of the doubt. Not today. Not when the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws and even the Hufflepuffs are all in the relative safety with members of the order. Instead she leans against the glass to cool her cheeks that throb from the heat of her tears. She closes her eyes just for a second and lets her mind go wander.

"There's still time to flee." Snape's voice is cool and emotionless and it makes Tracey feels almost normal. She longs desperately to be back in a classroom, hearing that voice chastising her over adding the wrong ingredient.

But those days are over. She shakes her head: "No. There's no place to go. The order won't take us. They have their hands full without us."

"What do you plan to do then?"

Tracey isn't used to having to be the one with the answer. But when she glances up she sees that the war has had a toll on Snape too. The headmaster looks pale and tired and he has no solutions to give. So Tracey takes a breath and forces a smile on her lips. "I need to speak to the House Elves."

"Can I help?"

As a Slytherin, Tracey has always somehow instinctively trusted Snape. Even after he killed Dumbledore, she still felt that there had to be an answer. She is almost sure Snape would do a lot for his snakes. It takes only a second for her to decide. She needs him for this. "We shall open the castle doors and invited them in. He is now our lord and a lord deserves to be welcomed with a feast!"

* * *

They dress in white as proper for pure-blood maidens. Tracey braids flowers into her long hair like her grandmother taught her. She helps the younger ones lace up their gowns and paint their faces like porcelain dolls. Somewhere out there the house-elves are setting the table and she feels a pang of fear in her chest. On the other side of the dormitory the boys are polishing their shoes and searching out the best tie-clips and cufflinks. It's been years since the welcome feast was last laid out for any lord and they all want to make it perfect for Lord Voldemort. Just like he always wanted it. Slytherins are taught from a young age to value traditions and customs.

Tracey hates lace and satin. She can't help but wonder when pretty dresses began to feel like funerals. But like so many times before she pushes the thoughts deep into the back of her mind. "Put on your doll face, it is time to play!" she whispers to her own reflection in the mirror.

Hogwarts has not been a safe place for a long time but as the Slytherins walk in two perfectly straight lines towards the Great Hall a special cold chills Tracey to the bone. Her mind is shouting at her to run but she's sure her feet would not obey. And generals don't run. She's made her decision, now she must see it through.

Draco sends her a glance. A wordless understanding. Tracey tears her eyes away and lowers her head. They file into the Great Hall where most of the Death Eaters are already seated. He is not there yet and Tracey lets go of the breath she's been holding. She stands just behind Amycus Carrow, so close to the chair that looks like a throne. Only Severus Snape separates her from where the lord would sit.

But Tracey has already been afraid for years and when he finally enters it somehow doesn't make it worse. Bellatrix and Lucius are at his side, one elevated and the other humiliated. They take their places and silence falls on the room. He takes his seat, the others follow. They look happy but across the room a first year can't hold back a quiet sob. Tracey looks up at the girl. Their eyes meet. She wills the girl to be quiet. Lord Voldemort is still relishing in his victory, soon to be cemented inside the very halls of Hogwarts that once signified his downfall, he does not notice the shy looks.

Snape proposes a toast to his victory. Tracey's hands do not shake much as she picks up the carafe to serve her betters and fill Amycus Carrow's goblet. A bit of wine splashes on the pure white tablecloth. Tracey's heart skips a beat. Her fingers curl around the glass and her knuckles turn white. Roses in her hair smell sickly sweet, like home.

She has never noticed before how lovely and silky Snape's voice is. But it won't wash the taste of death from Tracey's mind. This is no time for despair though. She watches as tens of goblets rise as one and they drink.

Ever since she first heard it, Tracey has wondered what a dignified death looks like. She's seen noble deaths and disgraceful deaths, far more than a seventeen-year-old should, but all untimely deaths have been violent. A life ripped from the world before her time never wants to come quietly.

A goblet falls on the floor with a deafening clang, remaining wine spilling on Astoria Greengrass's white satin shoes. Augustus Rookwood turns, an accusation forming on his lips. He can barely manage a gasp. He gags and coughs and Tracey muses how proud he must be that his blood is so scarlet and pure.

It takes the Death Eaters a moment to realize what is happening. Amycus reacts faster than Tracey is prepared for. Nevertheless she does not hesitate. The blade feels alien in her hand but she pauses just for a split-second before it splits the man's throat. His blood gets on her dress and makes her feel filthy.

The first year girl stares at Tracey, her eyes wide. Then she snaps out of her stasis. Rabastan Lestrange is going for his wand but she rips it from between his fingers. The dry wood breaks too easily under the child's gentle touch.

If a dignified death exists, Bloody Lady definitely is not it. Tracey stares with morbid fascination as the poison seeps into their bloodstreams. Their blood is turning against them and perhaps there is cruel irony or poetic justice in the fact they are choking on the very same pure blood they killed, tortured and maimed for.

Bellatrix doesn't die easily. Her wand is out and lips form a spell without even pausing to think. But the wooden stick is ripped from between her fingers by a wordless spell. Scarlet eyes find Snape. He is standing, face an unreadable mask. A raspy voice struggles to force out: "Why?" Voldemort himself can't make his body fight back. In the end, even he must die. The headmaster does not answer. Bellatrix tries to lunge at him.

Alexa Selwyn has been pretending to be a pure-blood for as long as she can remember. But as she grabs the mad witch by her hair she cannot help herself. "The Lannisters send their regards!" she whispers, tongue laced with venom, there's twisted pleasure in Bellatrix not understanding. The motion of the knife is as perfect as her manicure but the scene almost makes the bloodbath before her surreal. It's just a story. Black letters on white paper.

Draco Malfoy looks as pale as a ghost as he watches his father cough and collapse. Yet Tracey can swear that when Lucius gives his son one final desperate look, there's something else in his eyes. Maybe it is him forgiving Draco, or maybe that's just Tracey's wishful thinking. She needs to know that she too will be forgiven. But Lucius dies and she will never find out.

A rat tries to scurry away and almost lazily Theodore Nott crushes it under the heel of his shoe. The silence falls enveloping them all. Like someone had cast a stasis spell. Tracey licks her lips. Her fingers feel numb. The world tries to spin but she cannot allow it. She wonders why the blood doesn't make her dizzy. There's so much of it. She has lost a white rose from her hair and it floats quietly past on a red river. In a moment mesmerized by madness she reaches out to pick it up.

Blaise's bored voice severs the moment. "Do you think it would be incredibly rude to leave the clean-up to the house elves?"


End file.
